


Under The Edge

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Gotg Prompt Fic [6]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Groping, I'm porny trash but you love me anyway, Kraglin is a little shit, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Yondu doesn't mind quite as much as he ought to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4636398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kraglin's determined to make Yondu's life as hard as possible. In more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under The Edge

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt: Would LOVE to have a mischievous Kraglin feel up Yondu in front of the other men while trying to keep secret about it. Yondu is not pleased. Emotionally.**

First time it happens, Yondu doesn’t notice. Or at least, he writes it off as a fluke and thinks no more of it. You can’t blame him really; it’s an easy mistake to make. 

This is how it goes. 

Kraglin’s walking one way across the bridge and Yondu’s heading the other; Yondu’s used to people getting the fuck out of his way rather than vice versa, and Kraglin is seemingly engrossed in the data pad that’s relating the details of an emergency comm-signal picked up by a Nova-ship in distress in No-Man’s Space, deciding on how many men they can spare for a looting mission. So when they walk smack bang into each other and Kraglin’s boot tweaks around his ankle and sends them tumbling to the floor, it’s both of their faults. 

Yondu, of course, doesn’t see it that way. He shakes his ringing head and glowers at the man on top of him. 

“Off. Now.” 

Usually Kraglin’s good at taking his orders. Fucking _exemplar_ , really. He’s perfected the balance between absolute obedience and general cockiness, so that when Yondu barks a command, Kraglin follows automatically but not unthinkingly. If he’s got it into his head that Yondu’s making a dumb-ass decision, he’ll show it in the tone of his voice and the crook of his eyebrows rather than denying him outright – unlike a certain Terran brat, who spends an average of two weeks a month swabbing the bogs as a result. 

It’s those little signals that Yondu’s come to know and even half-heartedly respect over the years. While Kraglin’s a bit of a pessimist when it comes to his wilier plans (the wuss), the lad does have a sensible head on his shoulders. Sometimes. When Horuz or Peter aren’t challenging him to barrel-roll races on their M-ships, and so long as there’s no alcohol in the vicinity. 

In the bedroom, things vary; Kraglin’s allowed a little more leeway when they’re behind closed doors. But still. Yondu says go, Yondu says stop, and he affords the same courtesy to Kraglin in return. Even when he lets Kraglin have his way it’s still under the understanding that he’s the one who calls the shots; while it’s wild and it’s fun and rough as hell, it’s always, _always_ , controlled. 

This, when Kraglin grinds his thigh between Yondu’s legs on the pretence of bracing himself to stand, isn’t. 

So Yondu shrugs to himself and decides it must be an accident. He pushes onto his elbows, forcing Kraglin’s torso back to avoid getting clonked in the forehead with a hard red implant, and gestures for him to quit crushing him under his bony hips. Kraglin, flushing, jumps and hops to. He even offers him a palm up – which Yondu ignores – and tries to sheepishly brush dust off his lapels until Yondu loses patience and slaps his hands away. 

“The fuck’s got you so clumsy?” 

He wants to tack on an ‘ _I fuck your brains out last night or something?_ ’ but manages to resist. Sure, he’s got this niggling suspicion that the bridge crew are fully aware of what goes down when the first mate’s summoned to the captain’s cabin for a private meeting; they’re all too scared or wise to bring it up in conversation, but some days when he drags Kraglin off he swears that he spies Isla _winking_ at him out of the corner of his eye. But he’s a professional, damn it. His fuck-life and his work-life may be more awkwardly intertwined than most, but he does his best to keep ‘em separate – and Kraglin’s expected to as well. Can’t be a Ravager officer and wear your emotions on your sleeve. That’s a sure-fire path to mutiny. 

Kraglin shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much,” he says, eyes twitching down to Yondu’s crotch. “Bit stiff.” 

Understatement of the century, considering how much he’d been bitching in the morning. 

Yondu snorts and heads to his chair, barging Kraglin’s shoulder on the way. His pad had skittered a long way when they’d gone crashing to the ground, coming to a halt under the seat; Yondu scoops it up when he sits, sprawling on the high-backed throne, and sets it to a lazy scroll. 

“Think Peter’s old enough to handle this?” he asks, shaking it at his first mate. Kraglin looks lost for a moment before forcing a snicker and sloping to slouch against his chair arm. 

“Old enough? Yeah. Wise enough, though?” 

Yondu grins. It’s a fair point. “He can act as Horuz’s second then. Punishment for both of ‘em.” 

Kraglin blinks, scooting further up the arm. He leans to sweep the holo-read, although Yondu’s sure he already gave it a close perusal and, knowing Kraglin’s memory, has got the whole thing off-by-heart. Their shoulders press, leather sticking briefly before dragging in a rough slide. “What, did the two of ‘em fuck up recently?” 

“Naw.” Yondu tips back, head against the rest, just enough that Kraglin’s weight’s off him. Squints when the shift almost has the man overbalancing into his lap. Idiot shouldn’ta been leaning on him then, should he? “But I’ll think of somethin’.” 

________________________________________ 

Second time it happens, Yondu’s not so sure he can blame it on an accident. But it ain’t _overt_ , and yeah, alright, he doesn’t want to haul Kraglin up in front of the crew for punishment. Not unless he _really_ has to. And certainly not over a bit of on-the-job groping. 

So when Kraglin trails his bony fingers up his pantleg under the table as they discuss terms with an outlaw Kree Huffer-runner and finishes with a tap of his nails against Yondu’s zipper, he stares straight ahead and refuses to let his pulse-jump translate into a full body jerk. He stiffens though. Just a bit, and not in the way Kraglin’s hoping (if the way he’s delicately kneading him through his leathers is any indication). His nerves throb to attention, the touch – so light that under any other circumstances he’d be able to laugh it off – is a thousand times more potent with the danger of discovery. But the tension gathering in his calves and fists is all fight and flight, and one sideways glower is all it takes for Kraglin’s hand to slip to the safety his own lap. 

Yondu pretends not to see the disappointment on his face. 

“It’ll be fifty k per trip. More if we get Nova-trouble,” he says, cutting through the Kree’s animated tradesman bluster. He pushes back, chair scraping from under the desk. When he marches for the exit his Ravagers fall into rank without a word, Kraglin at his right shoulder. Yondu leaves the rendezvous with his head held high, another contract in the bag, and the burn of Kraglin’s fingers still dancing traitorously through his groin. 

________________________________________ 

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t put a stop to it there and then. He could, he knows. In fact, he’s absolutely, definitely, one-hundred percent fucking certain that all he’s gotta do is say the word and Kraglin’ll never touch him in public again. 

And yet… he doesn’t. 

Can’t think of why. 

Oh sure, he _intends_ to. Kraglin spends half their next off-break shooting him wary peeks when he thinks Yondu’s not looking, until Yondu sighs and yanks him into their cabin for a lil’ heart-to-heart. He ain’t gonna _encourage_ this sorta behaviour. S’unprofessional, after all. But for some reason, when he opens his mouth to tell Kraglin that it’s gotta cease, all that comes out is a gruff “on your knees, and mind the teeth.” 

Kraglin grins as much as one can around a blowjob, and when they walk back on bridge – Yondu on slightly unsteady legs – he bumps into his back and sneaks a rough squeeze of his ass. 

Yondu definitely, _definitely_ , doesn’t blush. Or at least, if he does, his blood’s of a close enough shade to his skin that nobody can tell. 

________________________________________ 

Fourth time’s the clincher. 

They’re wading through a depowered portion of the ship. The light coils glitched after they took a shot from a Skrull cruiser a few days back, and as a result, no one had noticed the coolant leak until it was serious enough to merit an evacuation of the entire quarter. Yondu’s put off assessing the damage too long already. 

And so. Here they are. Team of five – him, Kraglin, Peter, and two nervy little engineers, fresh into their reds, who had been the ones operating in the segment when the drone had hit. Having practically hand-reared Peter (or at least, stopped him starving, dying of infection or sickness, or being served up in the canteen – not that he ever gets any thanks for it!) Yondu’s plenty accustomed to tuning out babble. He grunts along to the engineer’s prattling apologies and his promises that they’ll fix the leak as soon as they locate it, and lets Kraglin filter out any details that might be of actual importance to relay to him at a later date. 

The corridor is dark and dingy. Coolant’s dripping somewhere in the distance. Their solar torches glimmer eerily off the red-painted pipes and grills that line the imposing slant of the walls. Yondu can scarcely see the shape of the engineer in front of him, but he can hear him – the slosh and slap of his thermal bodysuit through the super-cooled fluid that’s creeping up his waist and shows no sign of stopping. 

They’re all armed with welders and the like. You don’t rise through the Ravager ranks without doing your grunt-work – Peter, Kraglin and himself included. Most red-coats are familiar enough with the workings of an M-ship to repair basic electrical malfunctions, if they’ve got a holo-schematic logged into their wrist-piece. 

Yondu’s not most red-coats. In fact, he has the remarkable ability to make complex equipment malfunction by looking at it too long – but Kraglin’s pretty nifty with a screwdriver, as is the perky engineer lass who’s dancing around Peter and spinning the woeful tale of how she’d accidentally clipped a cylinder back on a ship when she’d still been with the Nova corps, and had caused a gas-leak that’d killed half the crew. Peter himself isn’t overly booksmart (unlike Kraglin, who despite not having had an hour of formal training in his life can sift through a high-level repairs manual as easily as if it were a recipe book). But he somehow stumbles through spaghetti knots of live wires on instinct alone and manages not to get fried – so he’s along for the ride too. 

All in all, this should be an easy run. Bit cramped, bit uncomfortable; bit dangerous if they don’t find the leak before the coolant overtops the thermal suits’ necklines and they all drown in frigid agony. But that’s nothing compared to some of the stakes Yondu’s worked. He skims his gloved hands through the swirling blue liquid, and plods doggedly onwards. 

Kraglin’s behind him, as usual. Yondu knows this, because he can hear his quiet measured breaths. He also knows it, because his knee’s poking him in the back of the leg every other step and there’s a hand, hidden by shadows and water, which has snuck around to fondle him under the pretence of grabbing his beltloop for balance. 

Yondu could smack him off. Yondu could pull away and catch up with the engineer – Kraglin’s smart enough to get the message, and Peter, who’s actually listening to the engine girl’s chatter – probably hoping for some nookie of his own, the horny brat – would be none the wiser. 

Yondu could do a lot of things. Instead, he breathes through his nose and lengthens his stride so he and Kraglin can walk in step, giving him easier access. 

Their right legs push forwards, coolant rippling out from where it brushes the base of Yondu’s ribcage. Kraglin flattens himself tight to his back and rolls his palm over Yondu’s cock. Left leg. Right. Left. Right. Keep walking, keep nodding to engineer guy’s graphic description of what it’d been like at the moment of the explosion, how the heat had filled the air with wobbling lines and five unlucky Ravagers had been slurped out into the vacuum before the ship’s gravitational pressure field had reformed over the breach. 

At least, he thinks that’s what he’s saying. It’s getting harder to ignore the hard ball of Kraglin’s thumb, grinding on his stiffening dick, or his fingers as they slide to the underside to cup and squeeze through the thermal suit’s loose wet folds. And sure, his face is stinging from the cold and he’s mildly worried about losing an ear or two to frostbite. But he’s warm from the neck down and, with Kraglin’s ministrations, his crotch is positively toasty. 

Toasty and tight. Very tight. Yondu shifts uncomfortably as engineer guy darts over to assess a potential rupture in the pipe overhead, drawing their little group to a pause. This – of course – rubs him back against Kraglin. Who, from the hardness gouging his backside, isn’t unaffected. A noise falls out of Kraglin’s mouth before he can smother it. Yondu lurches away just in time as Peter’s head whips round – 

“What was that? Did ya hear that?” 

“Just pipes,” Yondu manages. His voice is huskier than normal – and is Kraglin trying not to laugh? A-hole. He kicks him, but with the weight of the coolant liquid dragging on his leg the motion’s more of a tap. “Creakin’. Pipes creak, don’t they?” 

“Yes sir,” says the male engineer, bobbing his head up and down so rapidly Yondu expects it to go flying off. “Yes sir, indeed they do. Quite often in fact. ‘Specially when there’s been a leak – in fact, the greater the frequency and volume of creaks the closer we are likely to be, so if we all keep out ears out –“ 

“So that ain’t the leak then,” Yondu interrupts, once he’s certain he’s gotten his voice under control. Nods to the pipe that the engineer’s inspecting. The little guy deflates. 

“I’m afraid not. But it’s around here somewhere – I’m sure of it!” 

“Let’s get movin’ then.” Yondu waves him on, coolant beads slithering from the non-stick fabric of his thermal gloves. “I wanna be done in time for the night-cycle.” 

Kraglin steps into his customary place with a quiet sploosh. Peter, sharp only when it’s least conductive to Yondu’s plans, squints at their bodies, at the negligible space between them. 

“Why? You got _plans_?” 

Kraglin shoots him the finger. Then waits until both engineers are distracted, squabbling over whether the blown circuit’s more likely to be in a ceiling panel or under the floor – which’ll make this job a helluva lot more difficult, given the amount of coolant sloshing around. He looks Peter right in the eye before grabbing Yondu’s ass almost hard enough to make him overbalance and freeze his face off. 

There’s a sharp yelp. This time there’s no excusing it as creaky pipes. The engineers blink and stare. Ignoring them, Yondu stomps on Kraglin’s foot and mashes until he receives a squeak in return. Then turns his glower on Peter. 

“Plans?” he says. “Not anymore.” 

________________________________________ 

They say that revenge is best served cold. But after their stint in the coolant-swimming underdecks – now all patched up and in the process of being dredged and thawed – cold’s the last thing Yondu wants. So he waits until they’ve trekked the dry heat of a desert-planet, following a beacon to a spot that an arms merchant had, under threat of torture, disclosed as the entrance to his buried stockpile, before plotting how to get his own back. 

The opportunity comes when they’re fencing the goods. Yondu claps Kraglin on the shoulder and tells him he can handle this while Yondu heads to Xandar to bolster his dashboard collection. He’s kind enough to offer up his rarely-used office room as an on-board negotiation center – so this is where Kraglin leads the Kree Accuser who’s contacted them with an offer, once his shuttle’s docked into the _Eclector_ ’s bay. 

He’s a little skittish as he walks into the room. Understandable, given the raw power of the man behind him. Kree are bad enough. But _Accusers_ … Just thinking of the blood staining this zealot’s hands is enough to get Kraglin’s adrenaline going. But there’s money to be made here, and Ravagers ain’t that fussed about morals so long as the credits end up in their pocket at the end of the day. 

He schools his features, donning a cool and business-like mask before he takes his seat behind the desk, and gesturing for his client to do the same. He can do this. No problemo. Captain’s _trusting_ him with making sure this deal don’t go south, and like hell is Kraglin gonna let him down. 

The hulking stone-faced man nods and settles himself, chair squeaking as it dips beneath his armoured weight. In fact, it squeaks so loudly that the rasp of Kraglin’s zipper being tugged down is almost drowned out. 

With a horrifying rush of realisation, Kraglin tilts back on his chair. He peers at the dark space between his knees, the shadowed overbite of the desk that’s about large enough for a fully-grown finless Centaurian to crouch beneath. There, sure enough, he’s greeted by glowing red eyes and a grin that’s positively wicked. A stubbled blue cheek nuzzles his cock. Kraglin’s almost too shocked for his erection to fill – but then a tongue darts out to lick him over, thinned to a teasing catlike point. 

“So,” rumbles the warlord. Kraglin jumps. Looks up. Cold purple eyes, eyes which have overseen the deaths of millions and would survey him through his own if he thought Kraglin was showing him the slightest ounce of disrespect – disrespect like _getting sucked off by your captain while you’re working through an illegal arms trade_ – bore through him with callous apathy. He’d be withering in his pants if Yondu wasn’t lifting his cock and kissing at his balls: open-mouthed and soft. “Let us speak of price.” 

Kraglin swallows. So does Yondu – only he does it while sucking Kraglin’s hardening cock in towards the back of his throat. 

Aw, hell.

**Author's Note:**

> **I had far too much fun writing this.**


End file.
